


Fairy Tale Romance

by SophiaCatherine



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, magical fugitives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaCatherine/pseuds/SophiaCatherine
Summary: “You care too much about people who don’t deserve it, Haircut. It’s gonna kill you one of these days.”In which Mick and Ray deal with a magical fugitive, and Ray has to face up to how he feels about a few things. Including Mick.





	Fairy Tale Romance

**Author's Note:**

> DCTV Secret Santa gift for @aspacewithacherryonthetop - I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Set just after 4x3 ‘Dancing Queen’.

A sunrise the color of glowing embers is filtering through the bridge window. Mick didn’t know this time of the morning existed. But Sara's summoned them to an emergency meeting, and he’s been trying that whole ‘almost-competent member of the command structure’ thing on for size recently. He’s still not sure he likes it, but he doesn’t object to being taken seriously once in a while. Reminds him of the old days. Before this crew turned him into a goody two-shoes that his old self wouldn’t have recognised. Back when he... knew who he was.

Mick swipes a beer right out of Sara’s hand as he passes her at the central console. Wouldn’t want to be taken _too_ seriously, now, would he? He starts making a crack about money being better bribery, but cuts off with a shrug. It’s too early for jokes.

Constantine’s leather-bound grimoire is lying open on the other console, and Mick starts pawing through it, ignoring the way Trench Coat is looking at him. Like he hates Mick and wants his dirty hands off it. Mick's used to people looking at him like that, and he doesn't give enough of a fuck even to glare at the moody warlock. The gold-leafed pages are open to a section about the magical creature of the week, and _hot damn,_  this is good. Mick’s been looking for a new writing project, and this could be serious source material.

“Fae,” he murmurs. “And here I always thought they were those tiny Disney things with the wings. Like in…” He waves a vague hand. “The one about the pirate.”  
  
John blinks at him. It's annoying. “The one about the—Do you mean Tinkerbell?”  
  
“Yeah. That chick.”  
  
“Disney was a con artist,” John declares, wrinkling his nose. Smartass.  
  
From the other side of the bridge, Sara looks up and scoffs. “He seemed spot-on about fairy godmothers.”  
  
“Nah. They just liked thought his style was more fun than what they were doing before.” John rolls his eyes. “A couple of centuries ago, they were all black clothes and sneaky invisibility spells. These days you can’t move for colorful dresses and shiny wands and singing.” He shakes his head. “Disgusting.”  
  
Mick’s eyes are flickering down the page. “So these fae are more like the Irish stories? Leave them a bit of butter so they stay away, don’t eat anything they try and feed you?”

“It’s a bit more complex than that, mate, but—basically, yeah.” And there he is, launching into another ‘I’m such a magical expert’ speech. Mick rolls his eyes, not that John notices. “They’re liars, the bloody lot of them. Not their fault, mind you. Their morality’s not like our earth morality. Still, I wouldn’t want to be caught in a dark alley with one. You done with my book, squire?”  
  
He slams the book shut. John winces and grabs it off him.  
  
“Could you not, mate? That’s an irreplaceable magical artifact.” He rolls his Rs, reeking of judgement. Like he’s so perfect.  
  
Mick shrugs and turns away, heading for his usual spot on the raised edge of the study floor. He doesn't bother reminding Trench Coat that they’re not mates. He'll just keep doing it to annoy Mick.  
  
“Anyway.” John pushes off the console, starts strutting around the bridge like he owns the place. He’s already forgotten Mick. “If that lass in the village really has got herself kidnapped to faerie, we’ll need to rescue her, sharpish. She eats anything there, she’s stuck in the place forever.”

“What are these things even doing in 1840s England?” Mick mutters, but he doesn’t really care.

John barely looks at him, directs his answer to Sara instead. “Strange folks, the Victorians. Believe anything. The little buggers have been possessing people at a local seance. It’s perfect cover for ‘em. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it, Rory. We’ll get it under control.”

Mick glares, wishing he’d brought the heat gun to threaten the bastard with. Until a little voice at the back of his head—it sounds suspiciously like Leonard Snart—starts berating him for not being able to keep up the competent act longer than five minutes. Mick’s not listening. He throws back another mouthful of beer and lets himself fall back against the floor.

Sara nods, slapping her hands down on the central console. “Sounds like you and me have work to do.”  
  
“Bring Zari,” John suggests, flinging out his hands in some kind of impression of the way she uses the air totem. “We need someone with a superpower.”  
  
“Good idea.” She spins around to look at Mick. “Can you guys hold down the fort? Keep Charlie safely in custody?” She glances at Ray with an edge of worry in her eyes, then back to Mick.  
  
Mick sits up, drink forgotten beside him. “Sure can, boss.”

Haircut, who’s been staring at the other side of the console this whole time, finally looks up. “You can’t use me with the fae thing?” There’s disappointment on his face, like he doesn’t want to be stuck on the ship with Mick.

Well, fuck him. Mick shrugs and picks up his bottle again.

Sara pats Ray on the arm. “Not this time, Ray. We need you here in case the little winged assholes make it to the Waverider.”  
  
Ray’s still wearing the same glum expression a few minutes later, when it's just him and Mick left on the bridge. Mick tries to aim a glare at him, but he can feel that there’s no heat in it. “You used to like hanging out with me on the ship,” Mick mutters.  
  
“What’s that?” Ray looks up like he barely remembers Mick's there. “Oh. Sorry, Mick. I’m just distracted.”  
  
“I can see that.” He nods at the console. “What you looking at?”  
  
Ray's face gets a funny look. He rushes to push a button, like a kid caught watching porn when his parents walk in. But it’s Haircut—he probably doesn’t know what porn is. “Nothing, Mick. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
And then Sara's back, running into the study, all but jumping over Mick to get there. “Whiskey,” she says, her head in a desk drawer. “Apparently the fae like whiskey. I’m not wasting my 30-year-old Scotch on them, that’s for damn sure.”  
  
“Rip’s 30-year-old Scotch,” Mick corrects her, and she looks up to smile wryly, and a little sadly, at him.  
  
He turns back around just in time to see the back of Ray leaving through the port side door of the bridge.  
  
“Where’s he gone now?” Mick snaps, getting up and striding over to the console where Ray was just standing. “Gideon, show me what he was looking at.”  
  
Never too bothered with petty human nonsense like secrets, Gideon does what he asks. The screen lights up with the Time Bureau file of one Nora Darhk.  
  
Mick sighs.  
  
Exiting the study, Sara looks down at him. “What?”  
  
“He’s being weird. Why’s he being weird?”  
  
Sara shrugs. “He’s going through some stuff.” She raises a finger to point at Mick. “Be nice to him.”  
  
Mick doesn’t even know what that means, but whatever. “Sure, boss.”  
  
With a wave, she's gone again.  
  
Mick turns off the console screen. Then he wanders into the study to see if he can find the 30-year-old Scotch.

* * *

Ray’s been sitting on the floor of his room, curled up with his back against the bed frame, for who knows how long. Maybe an hour. He’s not asking Gideon. He’s not interacting with anyone, A.I. or human, till he can just pull himself… back together… 

 _Well done on that one, Ray._ He’s shaking hard against the side of the bed.  
  
They tried to kill Charlie. She’s his friend, and they tried to send her to hell.  
  
Ray’s not good at being angry. It makes him feel guilty, and that makes him rush to fix, to make peace. He doesn’t know what to do with all this rage boiling inside him.  
  
_Rage._ God, he was an idiot in that ‘70s punk house, thinking he was one of the cool kids. He could never be one of the cool kids. It just took his good ol’ crew to remind him of that.

But it felt good to let loose, just a bit.

Right up until they laughed at him and made him stop. 

He wonders what the drumming sound is, looks up and finds it’s his hand against the side of the bed. Bang. Bang. Bang.  
  
This, _of fucking course,_  is the moment that someone knocks on his door.  
  
If that’s Mick, he’s going to kill him.

Not really. Mick killing Ray is a much more likely scenario. But still.

The knock comes again, harder.  
  
Ray wipes a sleeve across his eyes, filling his lungs with recycled Waverider air. “Hello?” he croaks.  
  
“‘s me,” Mick’s voice grunts back.  
  
“Oh, hi Mick. Could you, uh—could you come back later?”  
  
“No. Let me in.”  
  
_Wonderful._

“Fine,” he says on a sigh. “Gideon, open the door, please and thank you.”  
  
The door slides open. Ray slowly raises his head to look at Mick, whose eyes are narrowed at him.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
Ray snaps, even as a voice in his head is reminding him that he’s not very good at that and he’ll only end up being annoying. He barks a laugh. “What’s wrong? Well, let me think. I just did some pretty heroic stuff to protect a new friend, who all my _old_ friends were trying to kill, and my old friends did nothing but laugh at me.” He knows he's already rambling, tries not care what Mick thinks. “Meanwhile, I’m trying to save another friend, and everyone else around here thinks I should give her up to a probably-unregulated government agency that’s going to do who-knows-what to her.” He peeks up to see Mick’s reaction to that, and, sure enough, frown lines are forming between his eyebrows, like he hadn’t even thought of that. “But at least you guys aren’t actively trying to kill _her_ , hey?” He grimaces, even though it probably just looks comical to Mick. “You all just couldn’t help handing out a bit of justice to some innocent creature who never did anything to hurt you…” He’s not sure himself if he means Charlie, Nora, or some other poor bastard, there. “But I was the only one who said she was good, and why would any of you take me seriously, right?”

He tunes in to his own rant and winces at his angry tone. Pulling his arms around himself, Ray tries not to look at Mick’s falling face where he stands in the doorway.

Mick steps into the room without even asking if he can. “I was right. You’ve lost it.”

Ray lets out a heavy sigh, and his head falls back against the side of the bed again. “Oh, just… shut up, Mick.”  
  
Mick shrugs. “Okay.” He sits down on the floor next to Ray.  
  
More hot tears are escaping, and Ray turns his head away from Mick. He’s embarrassed himself enough for one day. “I don’t know why I’m reacting like this,” he mutters.  
  
Mick is silent. But if his hand somehow ends up between Ray’s shoulder blades, rubbing soothing little circles into his back, neither of them mentions it.

The quiet is nice, but eventually Mick breaks in. “You care too much about people who don’t deserve it, Haircut. It’s gonna kill you one of these days.”  
  
Ray sniffs and shakes his head, face still turned away. “They do deserve it.” He drops into a whisper. _“You_ deserve it.”  
  
It’s all too much, even though he doesn’t know _why,_ and he buries his head in his arms where they’re wrapped across his knees.  
  
Mick grunts like he doesn’t understand. “What’s wrong with you?” he says again, but it's kinder this time.  
  
“I don’t know.” Ray hears his own voice come out muffled and profoundly sad, and he wants to tell Mick he’s sorry for being a burden, but he can’t. He just repeats, “I don’t know,” instead.

Mick doesn’t stop stroking Ray’s back, for a long time.

* * *

Mick doesn’t see Ray again that day, or most of the next. He’d like to pretend the whole crying thing never happened, and he reckons Ray probably wants that too. Their crewmates don’t reappear, but they’ve been gone on field missions longer than this before.

In the evening, he wanders down to check on Charlie. He finds Ray just standing there, watching her. She’s still not talking to either of them, arms folded where she stands in the middle of her invisible cage, but she finds time to stick out her tongue at Mick.  
  
Ray’s got this weird look on his face, like he’s hurting, and it makes Mick want to hit someone. He puts a hand on Ray’s shoulder. “C’mon, Haircut. Let me get you something to eat.” He gets a nod, for that, and Ray lets himself be led back upstairs. He’s quiet. Mick doesn’t like it. He’s gonna force feed the guy some casserole, or something.  
  
He shoves Ray into the galley, taking a step inside behind him—and stops up short in the doorway.

The place has been transformed. Decorations cover every wall and surface, real greenery and gold, like they’re in some great hall. Waverider-gray surfaces have gone, replaced with what looks like a solid oak banqueting table, half cloaked with an embroidered silk tablecloth. There’s food squeezed into every corner of the table—a real feast, like this is the Middle Ages or something. Golden dishes full of meat and root vegetables and winter fruit, and an actual whole hog roast at the centre of the table, with an apple in its mouth.

And in the corner, a _blue-skinned_ woman is curled up on a chair, a sly glint in her bright green eyes. She’s wearing a delicate short dress that looks like it’s made of woven autumn leaves, red hair falling over it in waves. She uncurls long, slender blue legs and stands up. There’s a glimpse of spider-silk wings behind her as she moves. “Gifts,” she says, waving a hand around in demonstration, offering them a sharp-toothed grin. 

As gifts go, Mick appreciates this one. He’s just thinking about tucking into that well-done cut of roast beef at the nearest edge of the table, when Ray throws an arm across him, holding him back. “Uh, pretty sure we’re not in Kansas anymore, Mick.”

“Thought we were in 1840s England,” Mick says, mostly to annoy him.

* * *

A fae. It has to be. And if she’s anything like John’s stories, they're in trouble now. Ray is holding himself—and Mick—back from approaching the blue-skinned woman. “What can we do for you, Miss, uh…?”

When she laughs, it’s like ancient bells ringing in a church tower. Not quite what Ray had imagined ‘Tinkerbell’ meant. “Now now,” she says, wagging a finger at him, “you’re not getting my _name_ out of me that easily. Names have power.” She talks with a strange accent, almost English, but not quite. She smiles again, and Ray suppresses a shudder at teeth that look like they could _eat_ him and Mick both. “Why don’t you call me…” She sharpens her gaze at Ray, then giggles. “Eleanor.”

So she’s, what—a mind reader? Or maybe she’s just done some mundane research on the crew. Ray frowns, contemplating the risks of either. “Fine,” he says after a moment. “What can we do for you, Eleanor?”

“Oh, I don’t want anything, my dear. Except for you and your _friend_ here—” and she looks at Mick, then winks at Ray— “to enjoy a little something to eat. And perhaps a dance? Oh, do say you will.” She jumps up and begins twirling, music starting up _in Ray’s head_ as she does. Enchanting sounds played on otherworldly instruments, but with an uncanny _wrong_ tone echoing through, as though never meant to be heard by human ears.

Mick is grimacing like he hears it too. “I mean, we did come up here for food,” he says, gazing sadly on all that meat and veg and gravy.

 _“Don’t,”_ Ray hisses, putting an arm out again. Mick could just push past him if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, always letting Ray keep him in check. Ray files that curious thought away for later. He raises an eyebrow at the fae as she twirls towards them, stopping in front of him. “We won’t eat your food. Please leave.”

She gasps, a dramatic blue hand rising to her mouth. “No hospitality. No accepting of gifts, no offering of a gift in kind. What _has_ happened to the _human_ _race—_ ” she spits the words like they offend her— “in a hundred and seventy years? You’ve become even more uncivilized.” She gets up in Ray’s face, hisses. “You go away. I want to stay. And play.” She giggles, and twirls away again. “Stay and play!”

Mick taps Ray nervously, insistently on the shoulder. “What does she want?”

“You have a _shape-shifter,”_ the fae woman says, blinking out of sight and appearing at the other end of the galley. The music is getting louder. Ray puts his hands over his ears, then drops them again. That isn’t going to help, not when the sound is inside him. “She’s one of ours. A…. hmm, how do I put this? A cousin, if you will.” She laughs again, the noise continuing to echo in Ray’s head long after she stops. “And you put her in a cage. I want her,” she says.  _“Give me.”_

Mick growls. “You can’t have anything of ours. Get out.”

She blinks away, exploding back into the world right in front of Mick’s face, and Ray startles, grabbing Mick and pushing him out of her line of sight. She isn't going to touch him. Not if Ray has anything to do with it.

“No power there!” she yells at Mick. She stops her frantic movement, peering at Ray, all teeth. “So many people you love.” Her voice is full of a knowing that makes Ray uneasy. “You just hate to think of losing them, don’t you? I could take one away from you. But who, but who?” Still an inch from Ray’s face, she’s blinking gray eyes at him.

Ray pushes Mick a little further out of her reach.

She moves quicker than Ray can see, grabbing Mick before Ray can do anything about it. She’s a tiny thing, looks like Mick could break her in two, but she’s already slamming his head against the table. A dish of potatoes goes flying. She slams his head down once more. “I could do this again and again and again!”

Mick doesn’t make a sound. It makes it all the more awful. His face is a mess, and oh god, Ray can’t stand it. He flinches, holds up his hands as she pulls Mick back up to— “Stop. _Please.”_ He can hear how pathetic he sounds, but he's not begging for himself.

The fae smiles that ghoulish smile again. “See, see? You can play nicely with me.” She doesn't let Mick out of the headlock, though. He blinks, dazed and clearly not all there. And, oh, that's some cruel magic.

Ray takes a single, slow step towards them. He glances around, wondering if he can get to the ATOM suit in the cargo bay before she kills Mick. It’s not worth the risk. Whatever Ray’s going to do, he’s going to have to do it as un-suited, _helpless_ Ray Palmer.

“This one is hungry,” the fae is saying, laughing. She scoops up a handful of carrots, inching them towards his mouth. “I think I’ll feed him. Then I’ll keep him.”

“Stop,” Ray pleads again, meeting Mick’s expressionless eyes. Ray's a mess of confusion, reaching for plans and strategies, all floating away. All he knows is that he can’t let her hurt Mick. “I’ll do—” Ray swallows. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Quick as a crying child with a piece of candy, her deadly expression is replaced with a delighted one. “Mmm! You’ll give me the shifter?” 

She still hasn’t let go of Mick. There's blood on his face.

Ray takes another step towards them. “She’s not mine to give away. But you can have me.” The fae’s sharp-toothed smile is growing, and maybe she’s distracted enough. Quietly as he can, Ray whispers, “Gideon.”

The A.I. doesn’t respond, but the lights blink once. Ray hopes she got the message, and sent the message.

The fae lets go of Mick. He blinks again, this time like he’s waking up. “What’s going on, Haircut?”

Ray lets out the breath he'd been holding, a little of the fear easing away. “Don’t worry about it, Mick,” he says, in what he hopes is a soothing voice. Mick is what matters. “I’m making her leave you alone.”

The fae is dancing towards Ray, Mick forgotten. She stops in front of him, running a hand across his cheek. He shivers, forces himself to straighten up. “You’d do that for him?” she asks, her eyes fascinated. Ray doesn’t reply, and the fae laughs. “I think I’ll put you in a cage of your own.” She slaps Ray across the face so hard that he tastes blood. Then she rears back and hits him with a fist, laughing all the while.

Ray grunts as he stumbles heavily back. He blinks—and finds himself tied up with rope on the floor of the brig.

He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been down here for years. Not since he spent a few long nights keeping vigil over a sleeping Kronos. The bounty hunter had refused to eat or rest for days, but at last he had finally succumbed. With a thin sheet of reinforced glass between them, Ray had spent too long watching him, trying to catch a glimpse of his teammate—his friend—behind the hunter’s armor.

And talking of... Mick is beside him, his own arms tied behind his back.

The fae is looming over Ray. He's embarrassed by the thin whine that comes unbidden out of him. She ignores it, pulling his head up by his hair, hard, slamming it back against the wall. “Teach you not to put people in cages,” she hisses. Beside him, Mick growls in protest. She turns to him and laughs, another terrifying sound. “I’ll be back sooooon,” she sing-songs, and fizzes out of their reality.

Ray lets his head fall back against the wall, and winces. Whatever she did to him, it hurts.

Mick is staring at him as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Haircut?”

Turning his head to look at his friend is agony, but Ray does it anyway. “She was hurting you.” 

Mick rolls his eyes so hard, it looks painful. “And _you_ getting hurt was better, was it?”

Ray feels a tight frown pull across his forehead. “Well… yes?”

Mick blows out a sigh, glaring at him, and looks up at the ceiling. “Gideon,” he says.

The A.I. is silent.

“Oh, that’s not a good sign,” Ray says.

Mick apparently still has other things on his mind. “I can’t believe you. It ain’t good enough for you to be obsessing about rescuing people. You actually gotta go and get your ass kicked to save someone else. What next, Raymond—dying for someone else?”

Ray doesn't miss the low blow of an Oculus reference. And suddenly he's really _had it_ with all the lecturing. “Oh, shut up, Mick!” he yells, for the second time that week.

He’s met with a surprised set of widening eyes from Mick. Who recovers fast enough to yell back, “I will not!” He shakes his head at Ray. “Russia,” he mutters.

That 180-degree turn is fast enough to give Ray whiplash. “Huh?” He idly wonders if he has a concussion. 

“Russia,” Mick repeats. “That’s when I first saw you pull this shit. You haven’t stopped ever since.” He scowls and closes his eyes, probably so that he doesn’t have to look at Ray. “You wanna save too many people, Haircut. Just—” He shakes his head. “Just fucking stop it. We ain’t worth your life.”

Ray rests his head lightly against the wall again, closing his own eyes. Mick can go to hell right along with the fae. And the crew, while they’re at it.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Ray is trying to think of an argument to counter Mick’s, but can’t. He’s flooded with that helplessness that’s been following him around for—how long now? Weeks? Or years?

Who is Ray Palmer, if he can’t _help?_

He opens his eyes.

That’s the moment when the fae blinks back into existence right in Ray’s face, baring pointy teeth at him, and he has to fight not to shriek. “Tell me who you love,” she says, voice triumphant.

“What?”

She points at Mick. “You wouldn’t let me play with him. Do you love him?”

If Ray could move his arms right now, he’d be scratching the back of his head in confusion. “He’s... my teammate. My friend.”

She gives an eerie, delighted laugh.

Mick is staring at Ray, an odd look on his face. It’s not an unhappy look. Incredulous, maybe.

The fae moves in front of Mick, but her eyes are still on Ray. “I think I’ll play with him again.” It sounds like a nursery rhyme. She’s reaching out for Mick’s face.

“Stop it,” Ray says through clenched teeth.

In reply, she steps back in front of Ray, grabs his hair again, and slams his head against the wall again. This time, the world tilts hard to the left. He manages to snivel like a coward and flinch away from her, but he can’t get far.

 _“Enough!”_ Mick roars. He’s somehow got a hand free of the ropes—maybe it’s from a lifetime of practice getting out of cuffs—and he reaches out and grabs the fae.

Ray’s about to yell at him not to do anything stupid...

And then Charlie’s at the door, eyes wide and dark.

Now that’s what real rage looks like.

The fae steps back from Mick in surprise.

Ray nearly laughs out loud, because that’s an interesting distraction choice, Gideon. “Let me at her, boys,” Charlie coos dangerously.

Ray turns and shakes his head at her. “You’re human now. She’ll eat you for breakfast.”

“That I will!” says the delighted, giggling fae, blinking away and appearing on the other side of the cell door. “Hello, darling. Won’t you come away with us?” She runs a long-fingered blue hand down Charlie’s face. “They put you in a cage.” Her eyes pan down Charlie’s human body, and she grimaces. “A _human_ cage.”

Charlie grins, waving a hand across her front. “A pretty one, though, ain’t it? Sorry, love. I’m not going nowhere with a fae. I know never to make a deal with one of you.” She winks at Mick and Ray. “Even this lot are more trustworthy.”

The fae pouts. “I could take you anyway.”

“You won’t, though,” Charlie says lightly. She’s backing away, inching towards the glass door of the cell. It occurs to Ray that the reason he and Mick are tied up is because the fae, for all her tricks, probably had no idea how to lock the cell door. Magic and technology don’t mix too well, even if the Legends keep trying to break that rule.

Charlie steps in front of the cell door.

It slides open.

She’s on the floor untying Mick in a second—who roars, and _goes_ for the fae.

“Don’t, Mick,” Ray hisses.

“She hurt you!” Mick yells. He's furious, fire made manifest. For Ray.

_Huh._

The fae laughs. She blinks away as he tries to hit her, reappearing on the far side of the room. “He can’t touch me, no no no,” she says, wagging her finger in time with the words.

That doesn’t stop him trying, bellowing in frustration as he reaches out for her again, missing every time.

Charlie is a bit slower untying Ray, her hands an anxious flutter around him. He looks blankly back at her, and raises a hand to the back of his head. When he pulls it back, it's covered in blood. He’s more hurt than he realised, then. Oh well.

“That fae’s a strong one,” Charlie mutters, an apology in her voice.

He smiles at her. “It’s not your fault.”

“Nah.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, her face creasing with worry. “Nothing’s your fault, either, okay?”

Ray feels his eyebrows scrunching up at her. “What—?”

But he never gets to ask what she means, because at last he can hear John Constantine chanting his way down the corridor and into the room. He’s flanked by Sara, ready in fighting stance, and Zari, whose totem power picks up the fae as soon as they’re inside. The fae goes horribly still in mid-air.

And— _oh, oh no._ John’s opening a portal to hell.

“Wait!” Ray yells, wincing as he pulls himself off the ground.

“Ray, now’s not the time!” Sara snaps, eyes ablaze at him. “She would have killed you both if we’d been a minute later.”

He stumbles out of the cell, hands raised in the fae’s direction. He steps in front of her, right between her and John’s portal to hell. “No one else goes to hell,” Ray says, his voice coming out firmer than he expected.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Haircut,” Mick says, but he sounds more irritated than angry. “Not her too. She’s a killer.”

“You don’t know that,” Ray replies. His eyes are fixed on John.

Mick shares a look with Sara. “He’s probably got a concussion.”

Ray ignores him. “John, you’re not sending her to hell when we could just send her back home.” He stares at the fae, sizing her up. “I’m guessing she’s from a magical dimension?”

John sighs and nods. “What’s to stop her coming back and making trouble again? Could kill someone, next time.” He glares, but Ray isn’t sure if it’s aimed at him or the fae. “She doesn’t follow the laws of hospitality. My guess is, she’s a criminal even back where she’s from. What cage did you escape from, duck?”

She leers at him, mimes zipping her mouth up.

Ray shakes his head urgently. “Then send her home. Let whoever locked her up deal with her.” He knows exactly what he’s doing, raising what Mick calls his puppy-dog expression at John. “Please, John.”

Behind them, Mick is muttering something insulting and incredulous.

John turns shrewd eyes on the fae, and then at Ray. His mouth twitches into a little smile. “You even want to save this dodgy little trollop, do you? With your face all those shades of purple?”

Mick, standing in his own ready fighting stance by the door of the cell, laughs aloud. “I’ve seen him more beat up than that and still forgiving people.”

Ray looks back at the fae. She's still caught in the current between the push of Zari’s air totem and the pull of John’s portal, and he can’t remember why he was ever scared of her. She’s just another lost, pathetic freak. Like Charlie. Like Nora Darhk. Even most of the Legends were there, once.

He attempts to shift his face into a stern expression. “Eleanor. Go home. No more abducting, and you don’t trouble the good people outside the ship anymore. Otherwise, we’ll track you down and send you to hell. And I hear that’s really not a nice place. Have you got that, Eleanor?”

She looks at him with too-big, terrified gray eyes, nodding frantically. “I’ll play nice. I’ll go home. You’re a good boy, Ray.”

John mutters an insult at Ray, sliding right into a spell. With a string of mostly unintelligible words that include some obnoxiously mispronounced Hebrew, he closes the portal.

The fae’s face stretches into another sharp-toothed grin. “Take good care of your _friend,_ Ray. He’s a good boy too.” She reaches out to pat Ray on the shoulder, and blinks out of existence.

“Good bloody riddance.” John shoots Ray a harsh glare and strides out of the room.

Sara lays a hand on Ray’s shoulder, startling him out of a daydream. “You okay, Ray? Can we get you to the medbay?”

Mick grunts, grabbing Ray’s arm, pulling it over his shoulder. “I got him,” he says.

“And _you_ get to go right back in your cage,” Ray hears Zari snap at Charlie, behind him, but he’s too tired to protest.

* * *

The adrenaline is wearing off as they near the medbay, the room starting to spin as Ray leans hard on Mick’s shoulder. Mick gets him to a chair before he collapses.

“Thanks.” Ray reaches out a wrist, not resisting as Gideon fits a medical cuff around it.

“That was really stupid,” Mick says, but his voice is hesitant.

Already feeling the effects of Gideon’s twenty-second century painkillers, Ray settles back, closing his eyes. “What was?”

“Getting her attention off me and onto you.” Ray opens one eye, and catches Mick shaking his head with a stern expression. “I oughta beat some sense into you. But someone already tried and it didn’t help.”

Ray lets out a warm laugh, reaching out to pat his friend on the shoulder. “Sure, Mick.”

“I’m serious.”

Ray opens his other eye. Mick’s really not looking happy. “I’m sorry, Mick,” Ray says, almost as a reflex. “I told you before, though. You’re worth it.”

Mick folds his arms and glares. It should be scary, but it's just Mick. “And I told you. No one’s worth your life. Not even all of us assholes you think are so worth _saving.”_

“Well. We can debate that later.” Ray smiles at him. “I’m just glad you’re okay, Mick." He really is.

Mick grunts. “Glad you’re okay too.” He pauses, giving Ray an odd, troubled look. “You feeling better?”

Ray laughs again, a bit giddily. “Not yet. Gideon hasn’t finished treating me.”

Mick shakes his head, arms swinging awkwardly by his sides. “No. I mean—from yesterday.”

“Oh.” Ray feels his eyes widen. His gaze slides down to the floor. The fingers of his free hand are tapping out a pattern on the side of the medbay chair.

Mick sighs and pulls up a stool next to him. “Gideon, how long does he need to be here?”

“About an hour,” Gideon replies, in a cheerful tone. “I can remedy his injuries straight away, but I need to make sure he faces no magical repercussions from his ordeal.” Her voice softens, just a little. “Or psychological ones.”

“Good,” Mick says. He grabs Ray’s face in his hands, so gently, turns it so that Ray is forced to meet his fierce gaze. “You’re gonna talk to me, Haircut. ‘Bout everything that’s been going on with you, and how long you been feeling like—like you were yesterday.” Mick frowns. “How long you been wanting to die to save people left and right.”

Ray tries and fails to look away. Mick’s keeping a firm, no-nonsense grip on his chin. “I don’t know how to explain,” Ray says softly.

Mick frowns harder, and Ray could swear he sees a jealous shadow cross his face. “Is this about Nora Darhk?”

“A little,” Ray admits. “And Charlie, and… other things.” He laughs more bitterly than he means to. “I’m just a mess right now. You don’t want to hear me going on about being—” He sighs, still attempting to lower his eyes from Mick’s uncomfortable stare. “Being depressed, I guess.” Too late, Ray wonders where that came from. It’s not quite right, but it’s not wrong, either. A weight heavier than the ATOM suit begins to lift off his shoulders, as soon as the words are out. So he tries again. “I don’t really know who I am anymore.”

Mick raises an eyebrow. “Think I ain’t been there, Haircut? Join the club.” He turns away, releasing Ray’s face.

As soon as Mick’s strong hands let him go, Ray shivers with a cold that isn’t just shock. He can’t feel so much of the doubt and anxiety, with Mick’s safe hands holding on to him. It quiets some of the noise. All those worries about where he fits, and whether he matters, and all his obsessing about other people who definitely matter more... It’s all still there, but for the first time in a while, he thinks maybe he can shoulder it.

So Ray sits up, reaches out and grabs Mick’s hand where it’s resting lightly on the edge of the chair.

Mick looks back up at him, grunting softly, but he doesn’t complain. “Talk,” he says, squeezing Ray’s hand back.

Ray swallows, lets his head fall back against the chair, and starts talking.

* * *

Two weeks later, and Mick is at his desk, typing. Click after slow click. Ray is curled up in a chair on the other side of the desk, watching him.

“Is this your new project?” Ray ventures to ask. Mick’s getting better about not yelling at him when Ray just has to say what’s in his head.

Mick looks up to grin at him. “Yeah. With the blue alien.”

Ray smiles softly back, and gets up. The chair legs squeak against the metal floor as he pulls it around the desk, sitting back down on Mick's left. Mick doesn’t complain. "Read me a bit?”

Turning his head to give him a narrow-eyed look, Mick says, “Bad luck to read stuff to people when it’s not done.”

Ray pouts. Deliberately. “Even to me?”

A sigh. “Fine. Don’t tell me if it’s shit. I don’t wanna know.”

Curling into Mick’s side, Ray listens.

“Lou bravely faced down the evil alien creature,” Mick reads, a little hesitant at first, growing in fluency as he continues. “She was six feet tall, her blue skin glowing with an otherworldly light, hand gripping Buck’s neck. ‘I will kill you and steal your love away to my universe!’ the alien screamed. Lou lifted his sword of light and swung it against her, as she teleported away, reappearing a few feet away.”

Ray snorts. “Sword of light?”

“Not a word or I’m stopping right now.”

“I’m sorry, Mick,” Ray says, stroking his arm. “Carry on—this is great.”

Mick looks like he doesn’t really believe him, but he picks up the rhythm again. “‘No one lays a hand on my love,’ Lou yelled, swinging his sword again.”

Ray smiles and curls in closer.

“‘Is he worth the risk?’ the alien taunted, now easing her grip on Buck as she squeezed her other hand around Lou’s neck.

“‘Yes,’ Lou cried aloud, struggling in her grip. ‘He’s worth saving.’ And with that, he drove his sword through her armor, its point pressing against her ribs.

Ray gives him a wide-eyed grin. This is better than childhood bedtime stories of knights and dragons.

“‘Have mercy,’ screamed the vile creature. ‘I know that you have a good heart, Lou Ranger. Surely you will let me go!’”

Ray reaches an arm around Mick’s waist, feels him warm against his skin. Mick doesn’t seem to notice, lost deep in his reading.

“‘If you free Buck and promise never to return to this planet, I will show you mercy, alien creature, for I am a good knight of the stars,’ Lou bargained. He looked desperately at Buck, hoping against hope that he would forgive him for letting his old enemy go free.”

Ray hums, tightening his arm around Mick. Ray’s head is on his shoulder. “Buck’s a good man,” he murmurs in Mick’s ear. “Lou doesn’t realise Buck’ll forgive him all of his nonsense.”

Mick shakes his head. “Nah. Buck’s a player. Lou’s the good one. That’s why it took Buck so long to notice him.”

“Nope. Death of the author,” Ray says in a sleepy voice.

“I hope that doesn't mean I have to kick the bucket.”

Ray huffs a laugh. “How does the chapter end?”

Mick sneaks a smile at him, flicking out the page where the edges have curled away. “With the creature banished, Lou leapt into Buck’s arms. ‘I am yours!’ he cried out. Buck did not reply. His love was a man of action, not words. Held in Buck's embrace, Lou knew who they both were. They were both good men, and they were both loved.”

“Huh. Another love story, Mick?” He bops him on the arm. “You’re a sap.”

“Ah, but this one’s just beginning,” Mick says, and he sounds pretty pleased about that.

Ray sneaks a smile at him. He can’t help but feel pleased about it too. “Mmm,” he says into Mick’s shoulder. “You should probably get back to it, then.”

Mick’s chuckle rumbles against him. “You can stay.”

“Aww.” Ray doesn’t move. “Thanks, Mick.”

“Gonna need both my hands, though,” Mick says. Patiently, for him.

“Right.” Ray lets go of his hand, but he stays curled around him. Mick doesn't protest. He puts up with a lot from Ray.

That doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, though.

Ray falls asleep on Mick’s shoulder, lulled by the familiar, comforting sound of his favorite hands on the typewriter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Thette for reading this over for me.
> 
> Feed my eternal need for validation with comments, and I’ll happily pause in the middle of Christmas dinner to reply.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://sophiainspace.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SophiaCatherin5)


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